


Scarlet Slumbers

by scouseofharrison



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Assassins & Hitmen, M/M, McLennon, References to the Beatles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:00:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24099217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scouseofharrison/pseuds/scouseofharrison
Summary: John Lennon is currently working as an ominous hitman and life is going fine.That is until he meets his most recent mission.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	Scarlet Slumbers

CHAPTER 1-  
You’d have thought that I would have become accustomed to the sight of blood at this stage of the job.  
Yet, it still left me repulsed after every kill.  
Its thick warmth always found its way within the sides of my fingernails, brutally reminding me of every last murder I’d ever committed.  
Every stab, shot and strangle would bring bile, crafted by Satan himself, to my mouth.  
Satan’s bile was a wonderous thing, as it would creep its acidic route from my stomach to my throat after every job, which would always leave me heaving.  
Looking back, I was disgusted with myself.  
Or perhaps I’m lying to you.  
Perhaps this is how I get my kicks.  
***  
Monday  
July 1957

I couldn’t stand having Aunt Mimi drive me to school. It was such an embarrassment to me. Ripping up arteries by night and being escorted by your Aunt to school by day, hardly the epitome of Jack the Ripper chic and all that. 

Of course, unlike old Jack, we’d only kill the real ‘bad eggs’, entitled by Bri. Although the scales determining what can class as a ‘bad egg’ were rather unbalanced, to say the least. Take this for example, last Tuesday I was shooting some lad’s brains out for giving his own wife the old boot, after he’d overdone it on a heroin shoot.  
Pretty rough stuff, right? 

But, on the Wednesday, I found myself slashing some sweet fellow up purely for overcharging Bri for a bag of potatoes down at the village shop.  
Unbalanced was likely an understatement, but to say I was delivering justice was even more of an understatement. Perhaps even a fabrication of the truth.  
But not a lie. 

Never a lie. 

I wouldn’t class myself as a bad guy. It’s just a job after all. 

You get some sweaty lads covered in grease serving mouldy fish at the local chippy to make a living, whereas I’m over here draining souls just to gain a bit of extra cash.  
It’s sort of the same thing, if you look at it from an economic viewpoint.  
However, actually I personally feel like it’s less incriminating to slit some old lad’s throat than to give a lovely bird a nasty dose of food poisoning.  
Besides, I’d rather be dripping with blood, than dripping with grease- the pay is a lot better.  
I could do with the cash as guitars are expensive and I always find myself breaking them.  
Back to the car. 

Old Mimi hasn’t uttered a single syllable to me this morning. I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t speak to me either, given the opportunity. Besides, I think she’s making a point. Getting a nice call from the police at three in the morning to say that yer beloved nephew is refusing to get off the bloody roof of the bus is hardly a nice wake up call for anybody.  
I was trying to make my own point. My point being that staring out the window for a solid twenty minutes could be a particularly enjoyable experience.  
Finally, the car jolted to a halt after decades. 

I slithered out of my seat, resenting the warm air being viciously torn from me and was about to give the car door a signature Lennon slam, before the tedious and pointless drawling of Aunt Mimi caught my attention.  
“John! Aren’t you forgetting something?”

She was clutching my hackneyed spectacles. 

Could this be a turning point for our recent vendetta?  
I could lovingly accept the spectacles and all events in relation to buses could be forgotten. Maybe we could start afresh. Maybe she could quit being an old bat. Maybe she’d realise that I was the light within her dark and sorrowful life and perhaps even buy me a Rolls Royce. Maybe- 

“Just piss off, Mimi!”, I retaliated, before giving the door a hefty slam.

I don’t know why I said it. It really wasn’t my finest line, but it did coincide quite neatly with the slam.  
A pang of guilt hit me as I heard the car trundle away, carrying my glasses with it. 

Fuck. 

Why didn’t I just take the bloody glasses? 

I’m truly as blind as a bat and my cursed visual impairment does end up intervening with the job a bit. I  
I don’t end up snapping the neck of the wrong lad though. I’m blind, not a div. 

Speaking of divs, I could just about make out the figure of two of them loitering by the gates.  
I’d be unable to provide you with an honest answer as to why I went around with those gobshites. I suppose I hadn’t had any better offers.  
I started making my way towards them.  
Maybe I felt morally obliged to be with them. I saw it as my duty to enlighten their bleak and unfulfilling lives. 

“Alright, John?”  
Richard was the only lad I knew who both looked and sounded like a fifty-year- old man at the ripe old age of eighteen, while still maintaining the mental attitude of a five-year-old. Facial hair was his newly-found upcoming attribute, as was calling himself ‘Ringo’- summin’ to do with his rings apparently.  
Neither of his new personality traits were knocking anybody out though. He was looking like an ape and I wouldn’t be caught dead calling him Ringo. It made him sound like a gigolo.  
Me and old Richard had been together now forty years now, as the old saying goes. So, it didn’t look like I’d be shakin’ him anytime soon, despite the facial hair. 

“Ritchie, my dear!”, I exclaimed, pulling him into a theatrical embrace.  
“Gerrof, you mopey git, Richard complained, while still hauling his arms around me. He’d obviously surrendered to my spontaneous outbursts; George needed a little more time to adapt though.  
“Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten you, my son!”, I mocked while approaching George with open arms.  
“I’d rather not, thanks”, George scorned. “I’m not queer like the rest of youse”. 

Poor old Georgie. He was still apprehensive around me, what with him becoming entangled within mine and Richard’s chaotic brotherhood only a few months ago and all. I had no clue where Ritchie had dragged him in from.  
Primary school by the looks of him.  
While Richard was looking like an elderly arl arse, George was looking like his twelve-year-old son.  
Actually, thinking about it, he could’ve been twelve for all I knew. I never did ask about his age in hindsight. 

We kept George around though. He knew more cords than anybody I knew. Although I will admit that his godly guitar skills made me want to wrap one of the strings around his neck when he first played to us, I put my jealousy aside and let him into our forthcoming ‘band’. A band was a bit of a hyperbole for what was our pile of shite. 

“Besides, you’ll mess up my hair”, George’s pathetic sneers continued. “I spent hours on this beauty this morning, y’know”  
George was the latest victim of the Teddy Boy phenomenon, you see. However, despite the leather and the grease, he still managed to look like a seven-year-old girl.  
“’Fraid somebody has already done that, Georgie boy”, I taunted, meeting Ritchie’s snort of approval, but George’s stare of death.  
“Aw piss off, John. I look more like Elvis than you ever will. Yer ginger queer”.  
“Auburn! I’m fucking auburn!”, I declared, feeling the familiar rush of rage rise within me. I’ll admit that my hair colour is a particularly soft spot for me.  
“Well then, accept my sincerest apologies…”, George snarked.  
Finally, little Georgie was learning his place within the group. I can’t lie that I often felt like smashing a guitar in his bony face every so often, but I’d tolerate him. Many would be obliged to call me an extremely forgiving, handsome and generous fellow, but my modesty wouldn’t allow them to.  
“.. because I meant to call you an auburn queer.”  
Then I lunged for him, desperately trying to throw as many pathetic whacks as I could at his bony face before Richard inevitably tore us apart.  
Ah yes, another one of the sensitive spots. 

I’m not a queer. I’ve got old Cyn to prove that rumours of my sexuality had been grossly exaggerated.  
She is a bore though.  
All girls are bores to me, but my bird is seemingly more so than the usual ones.  
I’d stick with her for the lay though. It’s as they say- a boring lay is better than no lay. 

“Ladies, ladies, ladies”, Richard sighed before dragging me off George. I felt bad for the man, I really did. He was growing sick of having to constantly be our referee. Maybe he shouldn’t have grown the beard if he couldn’t handle the responsibility that came with it.  
George staggered backwards; his Cheshire-Cat-grin remained plastered on him.  
“Good one, Johnny Boy”, he laughed before wiping his nose with his leather sleeve, hunting for blood. He didn’t find any. I’d always go gentle on George, mainly for the ciggies, which had just been produced from his pocket and which George always seemed to have an infinite supply of. “Same time tomorrow?”  
“You betcha, son”, I affirmed, after swiping a few cigarettes from him and pocketing a few for later. I needed the sweet release of nicotine more than ever then. I thought it might help numb the arising pain on my knuckles. Those bloody cheekbones. 

“You lads age me!”, Richard chuckled, offering me a lighter. “Come on, let’s get moving boys. A day of fulfilling knowledge of the arts awaits us”. 

Art college was a drag, but it was better than the local grammar school. Full of nothing but queers, princesses and posh twats, was what Ritchie would always say. 

Besides, it really was time to get moving. 

Another old day of the double life was stretched out before me like a winding road, although nobody would’ve expected the bumps I’d have to encounter that day.


End file.
